Silence
by MynaPyrrhuloxia
Summary: In the past, Norway has to come to peace with himself and what happened during Denmark's rule over him. In the present, he enjoys life. Through positives and negatives, we examine Norway's character through his chosen silence as he heals.
1. Forward

**You can skip this if you want.**

**This just explains why I chose to write Norway the way I did. So if you have a problem with the way I write something, come here if you want an answer as to why. And if your question isn't answered, talk to me, I'll be glad to explain/get critique.**

I'll keep this short.

People typically write Norway as tsundere and indifferent towards Denmark. He's sarcastic, cold, and not very fluffy. He doesn't show emotions. While I don't disagree that he's like this, there is more to him than just that.

Just like all people, Norway isn't perfect. He falters; he's had rough times. And I don't think he's the same indifferent man that people think that he is. When you brush so close to chaos, chaos becomes you. In my headcanon, the Kalmar Union was not a nice place in the later stages before it collapsed. I don't think Norway would act like he wasn't affected by it. He was obviously affected by it. It made him the stony cold person that we know him to be. It still haunts him. It always will.

The same goes for his happiness.

He can be fluffy. He can be open and happy. He can act like a child. He's not one-faced. I argue that Norway is one of the most multi-faced characters I've ever dealt with. There is so much complexity to him that I fully don't understand it, honestly.

Norway can be broken. He can also be rebuilt.

I think that some may take my characterization of Norway is OOC. I wanted to write this to defend that I don't think that's the case, or at least explain why I think that way.

If you put someone under intense pressure, their personality changes dramatically. Put someone who was in that state into a time of happiness, and their personality changes. Their entire being can change.

Take a dip into insanity and the darkness that surrounds it. Recover. And you come out the same person in essence, but you're different. You're not afraid to be who you are anymore. You are whole. You'll carry mental scar tissue all your life. But you're finally at peace, even if you are far from perfect.

I know this because it happened to me.

It happened to Norway.

It happens to many of us.

Let me tell you a story.

Let me tell you the story of a man, his chosen silence, and the positive and negatives of his past and present.


	2. Negative: Switch

The majority of this half of the story takes place right after Denmark gives Norway to Sweden. 1814 is the year this begins. For artistic liberty's sake, I'm combining the Swedish-Norwegian war of 1814, Norway's exit from Denmark-Norway, and some of the skirmishes between Sweden and Denmark during this time period. They're close together to begin with, but diplomacy would've been handled much differently.

Also, "empathy" is what my friend coined as the connection between country and people. It can be shared between nations in the form of kissing and touching a certain spot on their body (for Norway, it's his haircurl). If your nation is taken over, you give it to the nation that took over you. The reason why Norway gets his empathy back and it isn't directly given to Sweden by Denmark is because Norway has his own constitution and basic unofficial autonomy under Sweden-Norway. Or so is my understanding of Nordic history, correct me if I'm wrong.

* * *

The war was over.

When Sweden went to see Denmark for the first time since the Kalmar Union broke apart, he was still a mess.

He still wasn't right, nearly three hundred years later.

Denmark sat in the throne room, uniform torn and bloodstained, lazily sprawled across the cushions. He glared at Sweden for a moment before laughing hysterically, letting himself fall backwards onto the floor, writhing in some kind of unforeseen agony.

The court paid him no mind.

Denmark stopped, climbed to his feet, and cleared his throat. Sweden couldn't ignore the blood on his face as he strode up to him, prideful. They sized one another up. Both of them were full-grown and would not age any farther, reaching their terminal ages.

Much to Denmark's displeasure, Sweden was slightly taller.

"Hej," the Dane spat, knuckles turning white as he tried to control his desire to pummel Sweden into the floor.

"Ye lost."

"Don't rub it in," he hissed. His frown suddenly broke and he started laughing under his breath. "I see your eyes aren't any better. Not sorry for that at all."

"'S get it over with. I'm takin' Halv'rd."

"Fuck the Treaty of Kiel."

But he motioned to bring him forward, anyway.

Norway, on the other hand, was still physically younger than the two, not aging very much since the Union fell. He was scrawny, barely having any mass to his frame. And short—Sweden noted that he didn't seem any taller than when they had last seen one another. With quiet steps and bowed head, he stopped just short of stepping into the invisible barrier between Sweden and Denmark. He didn't look at either of them.

He didn't look good at _all_.

He turned his neck as he heard is name being called, and Iceland scurried across the floor. How old was he now? Eight, perhaps? Sweden couldn't remember.

"You can't go!" Iceland shrieked, pulling on the end of Norway's coat. "You can't!"

Denmark's eyes got wide and he started to twitch when Iceland began to wail. A demented grin spread across his face before it suddenly dropped, his pupils dilating back to normal.

He sighed, gingerly touched Norway's haircurl, and kissed him.

Norway moved his chin to ease the process, but he didn't return any of the force that he was receiving. With no emotion, he continued to stare with blank eyes, even as Iceland cried into his backside.

The release of empathy from Denmark's body had a profound effect. His shoulders slumped and the remaining insanity inside of him was finally snuffed out as the last strand entered Norway's form.

Norway shuddered, and Sweden watched his face turn even grimmer, thinner.

He was miserable.

Denmark stumbled back for a second, confused to be completely conscious of himself and his surroundings. He blinked for a while, and then leaned forward to kiss Norway again. He's returned with no response back, even as he tried to send a message of regret. He hugged him, whispering that he's sorry into his ear.

Norway does nothing.

Iceland continues to wail, and Denmark has to pry him off of Norway so that he can leave.

"Wait," Denmark adds as Norway starts to shuffle away. He freezes in place instantly, but does not turn his head.

Denmark retrieves a cross hairpin from his pocket and nestles it in Norway's hair.

"Halle," he swallows, "Although I can't excuse myself for anything I've done, I'm sorry. And I love you."

Norway licks his chapped lips and softly inhales.

"_I hate you_," he replies, growling, and he turns to leave with Sweden without another look back.


	3. Positive: Quirks

This second parallel to the story takes place in modern day, for the most part. Halvard Sørensen is my name for Norway, Henrik Pedersen is my name for Denmark.

* * *

Halvard laughs, spinning around in circles as fast as he can while trying not to trip over the rocks and twigs nestled underneath the sea of wheat. He can hear Henrik laughing, too, and they laugh even harder when they accidentally collide and end up falling, flattening the stalks around them.

"Ow," Henrik says, grinning, as he pokes Halvard square in the forehead. "That hurt, and it's your fault."

"How is it my fault?" he snorts. "It was _your_ idea, genius. _You_ ran into _me_."

"Liar."

"I'm not arguing with you."

"Yes, you are."

"_Henrik_."

"Fine, fine," Henrik shrugs, rolling closer to Halvard's body and clasping their hands together. "So, I was thinking, nap? It's plenty warm out and I'm tired."

"Serves you right, staying up till three."

"Halle, you went to bed at _four_."

Henrik is silenced when Halvard brings a finger up to his lips, whispers "Shhh," and moves closer, snuggling in.

"You're ridiculous," Henrik laughs, but he means that as a compliment, not a complaint.


	4. Negative: Unseen

They take a boat to Stockholm. The entire time, Norway sits across from Sweden and stares out the window wistfully. He says nothing, and the expression on his face hasn't changed.

Sweden doesn't want to pry.

Sweden decides to let Norway keep a portion of his empathy. The extra amount has already started leaving visible changes, as Norway's face develops and he grows a bit taller. He lets out a sigh, as the rapid growth results in a certain degree of pain, but Sweden is sure that as the oldest, hardest, and fiercest country of the Northern lands, he'll be fine.

Norway falters when he stands, and Sweden catches him, only to have his hands batted away. Norway limps, staggering forward, and stands exhausted when the two countries make it to the palace.

"D'ya need ta eat?"

Norway blinks at Sweden and inwardly shivers.

"Ya cold?"

He looks away, and Sweden can tell that his teeth are grit together, as he snarls slightly under his breath. His shaking becomes more violent until he passes out onto the floor.

Sweden searches for the problem and tries to wake him up, but as he strips the layers off of Norway's body, he's concerned to find small traces of blood seeping through his shirt.

Norway lies shirtless on the cold floor, his chest adorned with small wounds, bruises, and scratches.

Sweden calls for a doctor to patch up his old friend, and for the first time in a long while, he is scared.


	5. Positive: Déjà Vu

Jóhannes Hrafnsson is my name for Iceland.

* * *

"D'ya need ta eat?"

Halvard shrugs. "Dinner would be wonderful. Henrik was drooling on my shoulder the entire way here."

"Was not!" the Dane snaps, dragging a suitcase into Berwald's living room. "I'm hungry as a wolf starved out by Fimbulvetr, but I was not—and I repeat—NOT drooling on your shoulder!"

Jóhannes pulls off his headphones and neatly places his shoes by the door. "I think he meant that metaphorically, Henrik."

"You're all weird," Tino laughs, "But I guess we are too, right Berwald?"

"Makes us fam'ly," he says quietly, smiling.


	6. Negative: Desiccation

Norway gets better. He doesn't say where he got the wounds from, but Sweden can tell by the familiar fingernail scratches that adorn his arms and back that Denmark did it. When Sweden says this to Norway, he gets no reaction.

Norway spends his time doing simple tasks. When he stood in front of the kitchen door, listening to the chatter as the servants, Sweden held the door open and pushed him in, gave him permission to use anything, and stood back. Nothing happened until Sweden gave him a task to do—make eplekake.

Then he set out to work, and after that, he would spend hours in the kitchen silently making little things that he gave to whoever was passing by, rarely ever eating his own creations.

He read, but read rarely. Something that was uncharacteristic of him. When Sweden asked him why, Norway gave a disgusted glare at a novel he had left half-finished on the end table. It was if books had lost all taste and pleasure to him.

Norway's blank stare remained hard, but Sweden saw it falter once. Now that Norway was part of his kingdom, he had sent scouts out to find Norway's old summer home and find something that was of high importance to him.

Sweden could see Norway's heart skip a beat when he presented him with his violin.

He ran his slender fingers down it, held it close, and sounded out a few notes. He struck a few strings like a child for the first time, trying to make sense of the instrument.

But he couldn't bring himself to play anything.

Everything about him was dead.


	7. Positive: Hidden

Halvard would not admit to the fact that he loved playing violin with Roderich.

Even though Roderich needed sheet music and Halvard did not—even if their personalities didn't exactly harmonize—their music did.

And he would never admit to how much he loved domestic chores. There was something soothing to him about hanging laundry outside to dry or washing dishes while humming along to the radio.

Jóhannes thought it was hilarious. Halvard, his brother, so proud and high, could be quite a housewife.

But he couldn't really make fun of him or judge, since on weekends they'd blast music through the whole house and knead dough for bread or mix ingrediants to make cookies. And when there was a song that they both loved, they'd drop everything and dance together, giggling like siblings they were, until the sound ended and they went back to their work with rolling pins and whisks.

It was in these moments that Jóhannes felt that he truly understood his brother.


	8. Negative: Nightmares

Sweden began thinking that Denmark had done something to Norway's voice box since he never said anything. But then he remembered the haunting "_I hate you_," that he hissed before leaving.

Norway would make noises, though. He'd gasp and spin around with fear in his eyes if Sweden grabbed him suddenly, or he'd start whining whenever a new cut slashed itself across his skin—his people were recovering, but were making mistakes. Norway managed to declare his independence from Denmark when Sweden went to war with him, but as soon as the war ended, Sweden had taken over his country in a swift motion, leaving him once again just another territory.

He also has nightmares in his sleep.

Sweden has heard him screaming one night went to investigate. He found Norway sitting straight up in his bed, staring at his shaking hands, and looked helplessly up at Sweden. He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but all came out was hoarse, breathy stuttering.

Sweden tried touching him, and he only screamed again, writhing out of his grasp and falling to the floor with a thud.

The fear that lit up Norway's dead eyes settled, and after hyperventilating for a solid five minutes, he managed to sit himself up against the bed and hang his head.

When Sweden tried to leave him, Norway's arm shot out and gripped his sleeve, and through his eyes, he silently begged Sweden to stay with him.

He was tired of going at it alone.

And so for the next hour, they sat, shoulders touching, in silence, until Norway felt his eyelids droop. Sweden picked him up and laid him down back into his bed before climbing in himself, pressing the smaller man against his chest.

"Won't let an'thing touch ya. Yer safe, Halv'rd. Sleep."

Norway let out a deep sigh and squeezed him tight, running his fingers up and down Sweden's spine. He noted the changes in Sweden's frame since he had last done this as young teenagers.

He had to re-learn Sweden. He had to decide if he was safe.

He passed the test and Norway fell asleep in his arms.

Norway had the best night of sleep in at least five hundred years that night and dreamed of nothing.


	9. Positive: Elders

The next morning, Halvard wakes up to the sound of birds and Henrik's soft breath on his back. He turns and sandwiches himself against Henrik's bare chest while his fingers find themselves in familiar places on his backside. He nestles his head into Henrik's hair and sighs happily, eyes fluttering close.

They always sleep better when they're together.

Jóhannes creaks the door open and Halvard looks up. Smiling, he asks his brother to join them.

"You're not naked, are you?"

"No," he drawls, still half asleep, "We didn't have sex last night. We're wearing underwear. And don't act like you've never slept with us naked before."

Jóhannes scoffs, but strips down to his underwear and crawls in between them. "I don't know why I listen to you," he grumbles, wrapping his arms around his brother, "I'm not even all that tired."

"It makes you feel better, though."

"I guess," he shrugs, and closes his eyes.

Halvard chuckles and pats the younger on the head.

"You'll understand it some day, kid."


	10. Negative: Parchment

Norway wasn't as innocent as Sweden had taken him for.

He had heard stories, rumors floating around on the streets of Stockholm, but he paid them no mind.

It was only when the castle's staff started getting involved that he began to expect him.

"Are ye sleep'n 'round?" he asked him one night when they were sitting by the fireside late at night.

Norway almost dropped his mug of water and averted eye contact, a sour look spreading across his face.

"'M not gonna judge ya. Just wanna know."

Sweden stared at him. For three years, Norway hadn't said a word to him. He hadn't said a word to anyone, at least, to his knowledge. He didn't expect any response.

To his surprise, Norway stood up and grabbed a piece of paper and a hunk of charred wood from around the flames. He wrote two simple letters in black ash.

_Ja._

Yes.

Norway was communicating with another human being with words.

Sweden quickly handed him a child's crayon he found in the desk next to him and handed that to him instead, along with a new sheet of paper. Norway took it shakily and looked at Sweden as if awaiting directions.

"Why?"

_It makes me feel better._

"What d'ya mean?

_It makes me feel like I have power. That I'm not a good-for-nothing. _

"Why d'ya think that?"

_You know why. I don't need to explain what happened to me. You know enough._

"…D'ya really feel any better, Halvard?"

Norway's eyes started to tear, but he kept writing.

_No. I feel worse afterward. But it helps me forget for a while._

"…Nn."

_I'm in a lot of pain. You know that. It's taken this long for me to finally at least accept what happened._ He inhaled and grit his teeth, trying to prevent himself from crying. _Just bear with me while I work through this._

"Yer not alone."

_I feel like I am, though. And I'm terrified._

"I'm here. Yer not alone."

Norway sniffled as he started to cry, but gave Sweden the most genuine smile that he'd seen in a long time.

_Thanks._

_

* * *

_For those of you who are wondering about the sex thing.

In my headcanon, Norway sleeps around to a certain degree. Part of it has to do with the sexual freedom/statistics I've seen with modern day Norway, the other part of it is psychological. A friend of mine and I were roleplaying and this idea came up about Norway and his sexuality, and it just stuck. As a psychological crutch, it has to do with the concept of power. Norway has been taken over and controlled by various countries over its history. Lacking any sort of control or say about yourself is detrimental. People under that sort of pressure, who feel like they have no control, tend to develop disorders that have to do with creating superficial control. Eating disorders are a common, well-known example.

For Norway, it was a sexual thing he developed for awhile to get that feeling of control. He doesn't do it willingly, it's a psychological problem that he eventually got addicted to. I understand if this idea doesn't sit well with some people and I don't like to address it unless necessary because a lot of people think that it's weird, but it's such an important part to Norway's character for me that I have to.


	11. Positive: Spine

"You're really tense."

"I know," Halvard growls, "Just do your job."

"Cranky today, huh?"

"I'll be less so once you get the kink out of my back."

Henrik sighs and works his thumbs in deeper into the knot in Halvard's side.

"More to the left. And harder."

Henrik obeys, and as Halvard makes a muffled noise into the pillow, he knows he's got it.

"You should really go to the chiropractor if your back hurts this bad," he sighs, moving on to another area closer to his hips.

"But I like when you do it," he says. "It's ten times better, you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because you do it with love."

Henrik pauses and starts laughing. "Halle, you're such a sap."

"I can hear you dawwing inside, so you have no right to make fun of me, _dear_."

"You're right, you're right. Where else?"

"My neck."

"I already did your neck."

"Do it again."

"But I already did it!"

"Don't argue with me and just do my fricking neck."

"Don't even start," Henrik says, as he begins to knead his hands into Halvard's neck, "Don't you dare make a comment about how whipped I am. Since you're just as whipped as I am."

"Prove it."

"You make pillow forts with me. You take nonsexual bubble baths with me and we do one another's hair—"

"Okay, fine. But I don't think that counts, since I enjoy doing those things with you."

"And I enjoy massaging your back. So does that really make me whipped, or just the best person ever?"

"I don't know about best person ever, but you're not bad. You at least wash yourself correctly."

"You're mean."

"And yet you put up with me."

"Cause I love you, that's why."


	12. Negative: Longing

Norway declines every invitation to go with Sweden on political affairs by shaking his head no. He's not important, he explains to Sweden with inky writing. _Politically speaking, I don't matter. _

Sweden had taken him over in a single fell swoop. He didn't stand a chance. And now, as Sweden's industrial power leeched into Norway's rural borders, both the country and the man started to flourish. He had become quite handsome, as his people grew healthy, maturing into an adult slowly over the years. He knew that he was beautiful and he knew of the people that were jealous of him.

But behind the beauty was bitterness.

He still wasn't better. He still shied away from physical contact and isolated himself for hours, pacing, thinking, trying to mend something that Denmark had shattered into tiny glass fragments. Just like everything else that he got his hands on, Denmark was capable of only breaking things.

He was particularly nervous on a rainy day in June, fidgeting and clicking his tongue in distress.

"Hn?"

Norway scribbled something down rabidly and held it out for Sweden to see.

_J__óhannes__. Is he okay? I fear for his safety._

"Dunno."

It hurt Sweden to watch Norway's face panic, his mind coming to a screeching halt.

Sweden could hear Norway quietly crying that night, hugging his pillow against his chest in remembrance of a sibling he had not had contact with in half a century.

Sweden went to see Denmark later that month for the first time since he had taken Norway from him.

The Second Schleswig War was causing havoc on Denmark's body. His entire lower half, paralyzed as Prussia and Austria tore his land from him, left him bedridden. He was losing. He knew he would lose.

Denmark knew his time as a power was waning. He was over.

But he seemed better. He, like Norway, was slowly licking over his wounds and brooding, reflecting, trying to plan the next move. One step at a time, Denmark had told himself once.

"Hej," he said, exhausted, sitting up in bed when Sweden came to see him. His voice was quiet and soft. "It's been a while."

"Nn."

"How is he?"

"Who?"

"Halvard, stupid. Is he better?"

"Kinda."

"Kinda?"

"Looks bett'r. 'is mind ain't fixed. Cries lot. Don't speak."

Denmark shuddered and furrowed his eyebrows. "It's my fault."

"Don—"

"Don't try making me feel better, Berwald," he snapped, "You have no idea what I did him. It wasn't pretty."

"Noth'n' is when times 're dark."

Denmark smiled halfheartedly. "I guess. Why are you here, anyway?"

"Need 'ta borrow someth'n."

"What?"

"Jóhannes."

He blinked. "Jóhannes?"

"He wanna see 'im."

"He's in his room, probably. Halvard can have him for a month, but I'll need him back. The Royalty will get pissed at me if I let him stay much longer," he droned, tapping his fingers against the sheets. "Hey, one thing before you go—"

"Nn?"

"Tell Halvard that I'm still in love with him. Nothing's changed."

"Lots things h've changed, Henrik."

"I still feel the same."

"Th' world'll keep on spinn'n' without ya, then," Sweden tells him before leaving to fetch Iceland.


	13. Positive: Siblings

Jóhannes struts around the house snapping his fingers to a catchy beat that he can hear through his headphones. It's in a language he doesn't understand, but that doesn't stop him from dancing.

He stops when he can _feel_ Halvard mentally laughing at him.

Jóhannes removes his headphones and stores them in his pocket, but Halvard shakes his head, quickly snatching the iPod out of his pocket before he can fend off Halvard's slender hands.

"What are you listening to?" he asks, eyes fixating on the small screen.

"It's something Japan gave me," he grumbles, "and it's catchy."

Halvard gives it back to him, and Jóhannes hides it deep within his jeans.

"I'm going for a walk," the elder says, passing him.

"And?"

"Come with me. You don't have anything better to do, right?"

"I guess."

"Good," Halvard says, grabbing Jóhannes' free hand as he drags him to the door.

Jóhannes is always surprised by the rough calluses that cover the undersides of his brother's palms, no matter how many times their fingers interlock. He comments on this.

"I remember your hands being soft as a kid."

"They used to be."

"What happened?"

"Age. War. Struggles. Among other things," he replies dryly as they enter the woods, the harmonious chirping of birds keeping the cheer in an otherwise stiff winter chill. "The weight of the world gets to you eventually."

"…That's not the whole story, is it?"

"No. But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about."

"…What?"

Halvard shrugs, and lets go of his hand. He watches snow buntings drift across the snowless woods, flying to find an evening home in the bushes. "We're going to have a blizzard soon."

"I know, you told me that yesterday. But Ha—"

"—You know I'd do anything for you."

"You told me that, too."

Halvard pauses. "I worry about you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Jóhannes watches his brother struggle with finding the right words. Nothing comes past his lips, no matter how hard he tries. Halvard fidgets, frustrated.

"You don't have to say anything," Jóhannes smiles. "I get it."

Halvard starts heading down the trail, still unable to explain what he wants to convey.

Jóhannes chuckles and runs after him, slipping his smaller hand into Halvard's.

"Góðan daginn, Halle."

"Hello to you, too," replies his awkward sibling.

"Ég _elska_ þig, stóribróðir."

Halvard blushes and says nothing for the rest of their walk.


	14. Negative: Haunting

Iceland was almost just as mute as Norway in some regards.

Denmark was too busy to take care of him—engrossed neck deep in his own affairs to be concerned with the general state of his colonies. There were no other children—neither countries nor humans—that would play with him. He was unintentionally isolated.

So it was no wonder that he didn't develop normally.

Denmark blamed himself. Distracted by his own illness and mental distress after Norway left and his sanity fully returned, he was in no state of mind to raise a child.

But he still blamed himself.

Sweden found Iceland perched in a tree with a coloring book. He hummed an ethereal tune and scrawled in red on the sheet of paper in front of him, but stopped as Sweden approached him.

"Hello, I remember you," he chimed. "You're that one man who took brother away. And you fought with Henrik."

He slid down from the low overhanging branch and his shoeless feet touched the ground without a sound. He held his notebook close to his chest and stared at Sweden with utmost curiosity.

It was Sweden who was the one who was frightened.

Iceland had been born into the world looking like his brother—deep blue eyes and blonde hair. But as he aged, his hair turned silvery, almost snow white, and his eyes had brightened into an eerie purple color. But the way he stared at people still struck straight through you, seeing deep within your soul and examining your very humanity. Looking into Iceland's eyes, Sweden felt like he was being judged, as if Iceland was Lady Justice herself, armed with a pair of scales to weigh his heart.

Norway used to look at people the same way before he broke.

"Where is my brother?" he said coolly, narrowing his eyes.

"'m takin' ya to see him, if ya want."

"Really?" Pause. "Really, I can see him?"

"Nn."

Iceland nods, handing his notebook to Sweden, and runs off without warning into the palace, little feet pattering up the stairs.

Iceland's notebook is disturbing.

As Sweden flips through the pages, he's struck by the childlike representation of Denmark's old castle. The flecks of blood that he dotted with crayon on the stone walls and the stick figure-like representation of a mangled, broken body on the floor with tufts of yellow hair and bulky figure is instantly recognizable to Sweden.

It's himself.

This is the Kalmar Union as seen through a child's eyes.

Iceland comes back, shoes on his feet and a small bag flung over his shoulder. In his arms, he cradles a young dusty gray bird. He nods at Sweden, and whispers.

"_Get me out of here_."


	15. Positive: Viewpoints

Halvard is fond of autumn. As the trees shed their green and wither, he feels more alive.

The last few misty mornings of late summer make him feel like all is right.

He, in a ratty old sweater, cheers his half empty coffee mug to the equinox sun as it rises.

The coolness of morning refreshes Halvard. He leans against the railing and listens to the fluttering of leaves. They rattle, and his heart rattles with them. He closes his eyes, and is one with the world.

No, it's half full.

His mailbox is empty.

It's a Sunday.

But he's fine.


	16. Negative: Mending

Iceland stays for a month, as Denmark promised. Norway spends the first few weeks trying to adjust to his brother. He's not sure how to act around him, unsure of how to treat him. He sits next to him while the boy plays with sticks in the mud or reads books aloud. He tries to get Norway to join him, but Norway refuses, shaking his head no, and writes that he's just content watching.

_Why don't you speak?_ Iceland asks him.

_Because it's not time yet._ Norway replies.

_For what?_

_I don't know._

Norway gets better while Iceland is with him, but after the child leaves, he sinks back down into a hole again.

Sweden doesn't know what to do, but it was never his problem to begin with.


	17. Positive: Identification

"I like this," Halvard says, eyes pointed up towards the heavens.

"Yeah?"

"Mm."

_Mid-October stargazing, wrapped within a coat with nothing but a thin quilt and the cold ground beneath your body._

"How late is it?"

"Late," Henrik replies. "Look! There's another one."

"That makes nine."

_Stars, in clusters, fall, leaving streaks and crosses across the sky. Constellations in place, arranged by the gods, and the moon is nowhere to be found. There is comfort in darkness when you're not alone. _

"Do you know the myth behind that one?" Henrik asks, pointing.

"You know what that one is, idiot."

"So? I want to hear you tell it."

Halvard scoffs, but weaves a tale of heroes and the prayers of the gods that placed them up in the night. He talks about friends and betrayal, of wounded warriors and the ghosts that haunt them, of lovers and monsters. And Henrik listens, even if he's heard the same stories a thousand times before and knows the endings by heart.

_You know this feeling._

"When do you think the first snow will fall?" Henrik asks.

"I don't know. Does it really matter?"

"Not really."

_It has a name._

"Let's go home, I'm getting sleepy."

"Okay."

"I could use a cup of hot chocolate."

"Me too," Halvard says, and he can't help but show the small smile that spreads across his face. He's not sure why he smiled. There could be thousands of reasons why. But, as he said moments before, does it really matter? The feeling is the same.

_Belonging._


	18. Negative: Vault

Sweden knows better than to talk about Denmark to Norway.

He has an idea of what happened. He knows how cruel and unforgiving and cold Denmark can be. He knows how violent and unpredictable he is, how his strength can be used to harm instead of help.

Sweden's eyes were once perfect.

Denmark was the reason he needed glasses.

Black eyes and blood adorned everyone's faces during the Kalmar Union in the latter stages of its collapse.

It was only a matter of time before Sweden tried talking to him about it.

"'re ya ready ta talk about it?"

Norway scowls, walking over to the window and peering out into the outside nightfall. He scribbled down his response hastily.

_I don't know._

"Ya don't hafta tell me what happen'd 'xactly," he begins, "But talkin' 'bout it helped me."

_I'm sorry._

"Mn?"

_About you losing Tino. I never said anything about it before._

"'ll see 'm again. 'nd it'll be fine. 'n you'll be fine."

_Optimistic, aren't you?_

"Start talkin'. You'll see."

Norway sighs and begins to scribble.

_I don't want to talk about the things that he did to me. He was suffering in his own way, and he didn't know how to deal with it. He took it out on you, and then after you left, me. He's not a bad person at heart, but you can't simply forgive everything he's done. _

"Th'ngs can't go backta norm'l."

_Although time is cyclical in nature, we don't repeat the exact same events every time. No, things cannot go back to normal, since we have history engraved into us now. But time will go on and a new normal will emerge. Be in a certain stage long enough, and that becomes your reality—your normal. After a few months of him switching personalities after you left, it became normal. You became accustomed to that kind of pain. But sometimes it'd still shock you with what he'd do to you. What he could potentially do to you. And that was scary._

"'s true."

_When you left, it didn't get much better. He mellowed out for a while because the pressure of your lands was taken off of him, but he went back to the way he was. Sometimes he'd have moments of clarity and try to make it up to you any way he could. Sometimes he'd be fine for months on end. But he'd have an episode, and all you could do is hide inside yourself and brace for what would eventually happen. And it was even worse that way. Because in the times he was normal enough to make it up to you and charm you into thinking that everything would be fine. You couldn't switch between old, happy normal and the new unpredictable normal. That hurt the most, when he would switch._

"I kn'w."

_The damage has been done. There's no going back. You may get better, but time doesn't heal all wounds. Maybe eventually you'll get better, but time moves slower for people like us. But you'll get over it. Maybe._

"'ne more thing," Sweden says. "Ya loved him once. I 'member."

_Yes. And?_

"D'ya still love him?"

Norway's face turns white and he stares at Sweden. Part of him wants to know why Sweden asked the question. Another part of him wants to kill Sweden for ever mentioning such a thing. Another pat of him wants to hide. His face contorts as he thinks. He knows.

"Yes," Norway says, his voice cracking and soft from years of disuse. He clenches his jaw shut and tries to contain the whirlwind of emotion as it pours out of a place in his heart he's kept under lock and key.

"I still love him."


	19. Positive: Wish

Henrik is the one, this time, who initiates it. Sometimes it's Halvard. It's always a mystery. It depends what mood they're in.

Henrik, contrary to one might think, doesn't typically croon or make a fuss over Halvard. He just goes for it. Halvard is the one who likes to start sweet. At least at first.

When Henrik doesn't break away from what began as nothing more than a simple kiss, when he presses deeper and parts Halvard's lips, Halvard knows what he wants. Reciprocating the gesture, but pushing Henrik up against the wall as he does so, he silently agrees.

It's a battle all the way to the bedroom. They're already half undressed before Halvard's back is against the sheets.

This isn't the first time they've done this.

And it certainly won't be the last.

And afterwards, as they pant, drenched in sweat underneath the covers, breathless, they find one another and wrap their limbs around the other's bodies. As the rising and falling of their chests becomes calm, they draw themselves even closer and play with one another's hair, stroking each other's golden locks and talk to one another.

They talk about nothing important. Just whatever comes to mind.

But before they fall asleep, they never forget to say two phrases.

"Jeg elsker dig."

"Jeg elsker deg."

I love you.

I love you, and I always will.


	20. Negative: Black Ink

With Sweden pushing him, Norway finally writes Denmark a letter.

And as short, formal, and businesslike as it is, Sweden figures it's a start.

Norway gets a letter back that is as awkward and pointless as the one he sent. He writes again, going into more detail about the paint cracks in the ceiling or the way the rainstorm drowned out the flowers in Sweden's garden.

Denmark replies with the weather, politics, and Iceland's health. Neither of them address one another directly. They only acknowledge the other when they write the header.

"_Dear Halle"_ or "_Dear Henrik."_ That is as personal as they get.

For a while anyway. They start talking. The content of the letters becomes private. Their letters, originally no more than a few pages, start to resemble short novels with the number of pages they have to stuff into envelopes.

Then one day, Norway stops writing to him all together. Denmark doesn't inquire as to why. Sweden doesn't either.

Sometimes Norway disappears off into the woods for days at a time. He comes back tired, dirt on his clothes and hair messy from the wind. He nods at Sweden when he comes back to his adopted home and goes to sleep in the middle of the day, three-day old clothes plastered to his skin.

He's started reading again.

But he still rarely talks. He talks with his eyes now, exchanging glances with Sweden to exhibit his current state of mind. When he does open his mouth to speak, his voice is quiet and coarse. _I sound like a crow_, he tells Sweden. _That isn't my voice._

"Yer gonna hafta f'nd it again," Sweden says, "If ya think you've lost it."

_The old me is dead._

"Dead," Norway vocalizes to prove his point. "Dead,"

"Ya do sound like crow. Like a y'ung 'n. A baby."

_I'm not young. I'm older than you_, he writes furiously.

"Yer just find'in life again. Yer startin' over. Ya gotta find yer feath'rs, bird."

_To fly?_

"Yeh."

Norway snorts.

"I'd rather swim," he spits indignantly and leaves to go search the woods for remnants of his soul.

"Don't drown, bird," Sweden yells out after him.

"Don't drown."

One day, you'll find land.

* * *

Although Denmark is, by constitution date, the oldest, I've always seen Norway as existing the longest. He's physically younger than both Denmark and Sweden, but he's mentally older. That's always been my impression of him. Something about him screams wisdom and age to me.


	21. Positive: Reversal: Dragon

"What do you think it is?" Halvard says, cocking his head to one side.

"Dunno!"

_People change._

"Do you think it's the remains of a dragon?" Halvard wonders, "Or maybe a troll's bones?"

"A dragon?" Henrik jumps up and down in excitement. "I wonder if there's another one! I'll have to slay it!"

"Yeh r'ight. An' you'll get fried. An Halle'll hafta heal ya with magic."

_Some more than others._

"I don't have to do _anything_," Halvard retorts defiantly, climbing atop one of the ivory arches.

"I can't believe that it could really be a dragon!"

"I didn't say it _was _a dragon. I said it that maybe it _could_ be."

"Whatever. What do you think, Berwald?"

"Nm."

_We are born into this world as children._

"None of you are any fun," Henrik pouts. He climbs on top of the bleached bones of the whale and pretends to stab it with his wooden sword. "YAH! KILLED YA!"

"It's already dead, dummy."

"I'm just pretending! Chill out!"

_We grow older and mature into a more refined state. But we long for the old days. And we start to regress, trying to hold on to that childlike fascination with the world. Where everything is so mysterious and grand. Where a whale's decaying body can become a dragon._

"That's childish, though, Henrik."

"You forget that we are children!"

"Children that age slowly. We're older than we look."

"But we are children all the same, Halle."

_Remaining that way whilst remaining wise seems contradictory. But sometimes, children are the wisest of all._

"Yer all weird, ya know."

"_From children and drunks you hear the truth." Why? Because they are not afraid to say what is so._

"You're equally as weird. You talk funny."

_The truth may be elusive._

"You _talk _funny, Henrik. You sound like you have a potato in your throat."

_The truth may not even exist._

"My language is the most beautiful out of all of ya'lls!"

"… You did not just say that."

_But believing in something, as small as it may seem…_

"Hey, you smiled, Halle, you thought it was funny."

"Maybe. And maybe these bones really did belong to a dragon."

"Nob'dy knows."

"Right."

_Can bring you hope._


	22. Negative: Jóhannes

Norway begs to see Iceland yet again. Sweden asks for him. Denmark grants his wish. One month.

Iceland is different. His childishness has started to subside, and he's grown. He still buries his face into Norway's chest, but he's older.

He's also forgotten.

Sweden observes how awkward the two are together. Norway continues to talk to him through writing, still horrified by the sound of his own voice, but with some encouragement from his sibling, he speaks simple things.

Hei. Ja. Nei.

Iceland remembers his brother. He knows his name and the defined jawline he has. He recognizes his broad shoulders, the deep blue of his eyes, and his tawny, wheat-colored hair. He remembers things that Norway likes and things that he dislikes.

But he doesn't remember what happened.

_He's repressing everything bad._

Sweden agrees. "Makes sense. Lots bad stuff h'ppned. If he c'n block 't out, good."

_He doesn't understand why I am the way I am._

"All 'n due time. 'e 's too youn' fer that."

_He keeps asking._

"Just keep makin' time. Ye don't 'ave that long."

Norway frowns. _One day he'll be mine again._

"Wh't a lie that is."

"That might be so," Norway speaks softly, air passing through his windpipe like a stiff breeze, "But we'll always share blood."

_Still mine._

"Nothin' lasts forever. Even th' mount'ns and th' sea change."

_By the time that happens, we would already be ashes at the seafloor. It wouldn't matter, then. Our bodies will break apart long after our hearts separate. And even then, in spirit, together._

Sweden sighs and takes out his own pen and scribbles a note on the edge of Norway's paper.

_You have only a week left with him, Halvard. Don't waste it. _

"I know," Norway replies, eyes fixed on the drying ink.

"I know."


	23. Positive: Every

_One swallow does not a summer make._

Halvard's fingers flit across the strings of his violin with quick fury. He does not play perfectly, but he plays good enough. His stance may not be traditional and his methods wild, but it is this untamed nature that allows him to experiment to create new sounds.

Jóhannes races down the black beach, waving his arms to create the blurred perception that he is flapping his wings like the seabirds that flee from his presence. He does not laugh, nor does he necessarily smile as he does this, but he is content enough as he is.

_But that single swallow is what begins to change the passing of spring to summer. _

Jóhannes runs. Halvard plays.

_A single spark creates a fire._

As nations, they are separated by an ocean and a language. As people they are separated by age and misunderstanding. By actions they come together.

Through the mist, the breath of morning creates condensation on every still being.

_A single snowflake creates a blizzard. _

Jóhannes' puffin has been replaced over and over again. The same gray bird he toted around as a child was not the same that flew with black wings spread above him.

_Every rock is a part of a mountain._

Halvard finishes his song. He birthed it into being, and he knows he will never birth it again. As the last echo of the notes leave his mind, he puts down his instrument to watch the sun rise further into the sky.

_And even if that single swallow dies with a late frost or is shot out of the air and falls like a star._

Jóhannes understands death now. As a child, he did not understand why his puffin did not come back to him. But he soon realized that there were many puffins to replace his missing partner. And although each is different, although each has a different name, he never forgets to acknowledge the many dead souls that march behind him.

…_The thousands of swallows that come flying after it will adorn the trees just as thickly as the leaves do._

Halvard told Jóhannes that to truly understand death, you would have to die yourself. Now that he had died several times, he would have to say that he agreed with his brother. Something about the last few frantic breaths your body takes before blacking out had changed him.

_It has done its duty and it can be laid to rest._

Was he more cynical now? Or did he appreciate the world of the living more? It was probably a mix of both. Jóhannes stops running as the noise from Halvard's bow stops. Synchrony.

_One swallow does not a summer make._

"Why did you stop playing?" Jóhannes asks him as he climbs up the sand dune to sit with him on the grass.

Halvard shrugs. To him, it just felt right.

_But it takes that one swallow to begin it._


	24. Negative: Dollhouse

Sweden asks for Austria to come and play piano for a ball he is having. The man graciously accepts—playing music takes him away from the stress of international affairs, he tells him.

Austria is unfamiliar with Sweden's piano and his nose turns in disgust at the layer of dust it has obtained from disuse.

"I dunno know howta play," Sweden says, shrugging. But Austria doesn't take that as an excuse.

He asks some time alone to practice.

Something about the music attracts Norway, and he peaks out from behind the door, sweeping into the room with ease. He stands against the wall and listens to him play.

He closes his eyes, steps forward, and wavers with the song, trying to remember how to exactly move his feet with the pattern of the notes. He continues to move even after the music stops.

"Hello, Mr. Sørensen. It has certainly been quite a long time."

Norway unfurls himself from his mid-dance step and turns.

"It has." His voice is still quiet, but the roughness as faded.

"How have you been?"

"Nothing," is his quick, mono-word response.

"Nothing. I—"

"Nothing."

"Ah. You're practicing dancing, I see."

"I haven't danced in a while. Years."

"How about something older and easier," Austria smiles, his fingers finding places on the keys, "You should know this one."

Austria begins the tune slowly, and Norway thinks.

He takes a step and begins to dance without a partner.

The music gets faster, and he moves faster with it.

Norway's eyes close again as he spins.

His thoughts turn with him. Thoughts of his brother, of Denmark, of Sweden, of Finland off with Russia. Thoughts of his sadness and of his fury, of his snuffed out passion and the soul-kindling that he wishes to find. And as his thoughts deepen and he searches further within his heart to discover parts of himself he had long since forgotten about, he moves with more vigor and energy. He dances faster.

He dances as if his life depends on it.

He doesn't realize how fast he's going until he outraces Austria's fingers and stumbles, falling backwards and hitting his arm on the hard floor. He stands up and shakes it off, ignoring the throbbing in his elbow.

Austria is standing, staring at him, and Norway curtly bows before departing, chest rising and falling fast.

With his back to the door, he slides down against it and pants, trying to make sense of his past, present, and what he should do for the future. He sits there for an hour, confused within his own mind.

Austria simply smiles, sits back down at the piano, and continues to play.


	25. Positive: Skype

"I am not drawing a face on my foot."

Halvard watches Henrik's delayed reaction over the webcam. Henrik grins and awkwardly holds up his foot to the lens, a sloppily drawn smiley face drawn on in sharpie. "Dude, you don't understand! We could match!"

"I am not drawing a face on my foot. That's dumb."

"Fine then. Be that way. I won't come visit you next week."

Halvard scowls and fumbles around his desk for a moment, pauses, and shows Denmark a hastily drawn expressionless face on the top of his foot. Denmark squeals and Norway bangs his head against the keyboard to show his displeasure.

"You did it, you did it, you did it!" Henrik sings mockingly. "Now, I gotta tell you about my wickedly awesome dream last night."

"Oh dear…"

"So I was this Viking guy right, and you were a Valkyrie, and we were riding on this cloud in the sky. Berwald was this farmer guy toiling away at the land and I just kind of laughed at him, and Tino was a sheep and he just kept going "BAAAAA," Henrik moves closer to the camera to show his point, "All the time. And we got into a race with Gilbert, but we owned him so hard, and you fed me grapes, and Jóhannes was floating out in the middle of the ocean with a ring float sipping fancy things with umbrellas on them. He was also wearing sunglasses."

"…. Okay, do I want to know what drinks and or drugs you consumed before you slept and have _that_ monstrosity of a dream?"

"Three beers, two Red Bulls, and a bag of chips."

"Never again."

"OH ALSO!" Henrik exclaims, proceeding to start babbling about another dream he had. Midway through his livid interpretation of the way his dream-daughter, Bruce Periwinkle Willis, was crowned dairy farmer of the year, Halvard put his fingers to his lips.

"Shh!" he hissed.

"What?"

"We're going to play the quiet game. Whoever stays silent the longest wins."

"So we're going to sit here and stare at one another until something happens?"

"Correction. I'm going to read this book, and you're going to stay quiet for as long as you can."

Henrik grins and zips his lips shut.

He lasts a little less than a minute.

"Dude you gotta see this dance I learned!" he jumps out of his chair, moving farther back and aligning the webcam correctly.

"_Are you twelve?"_

Henrik starts dancing sporadically, and Halvard just stares.

"You really are an idiot."

"Sure, but at least I live life to the fullest!" he says, sitting back down again. "Hey, you moved. When did that happen?"

Henrik watches as Halvard lies down onto his bed, getting under the covers. "While you were dancing. I'm getting tired. Probably going to sleep soon."

"Kiss goodnight?"

"Fine," Halvard sighs, and the two of them kiss their respective webcam lens at the same time. "Hey, you know what else you should do?"

"What?"

"Sing me to sleep. Your voice isn't as grating when you sing."

"Over call?"

"Yes," Halvard says, adjusting himself under the covers, closing his eyes. "And you're only allowed to hang up when you are certain I am asleep."

"Alright," Henrik nods, "Alright."

He clears his throat, takes a breath, and begins.

_About a year from now I wake up in the arms of who I want,_

_Without the need to hide our nakedness in pure and holy thought_

He sings low, quietly, alike if he as singing a lullaby.

_But rather blessing thrice, the shutters never closed, the bed still made,_

_The early afternoon as morning, "Mmm" as "Hey, are you awake?"_

Mellow, deep, but not without feeling.

_You take my love and my lust,_

_Cold-clock my mind out,_

_Turn in my keys to the kingdom,_

_And lip-lock my body down._

Henrik smiles.

_You are, you are, you are to me like a very, very wild thing._

_These are, these are to me like the games I played._

_Before I heard they weren't safe to play._

_You are to me like a very, very wild thing._

He continues to sing for a half an hour. He knows that Halvard had fallen asleep after the second song, but he continued to sing anyway. Not because he was vain in his own voice, but because he feared if he stopped singing, Halvard would wake up. So he slowly quieted and slowed the words of the songs he sang until he could not differentiate them from the static feedback from the computer.

Henrik, satisfied with his work, kisses the lens one final time.

"Good night, wild thing," he mutters, before pressing END and going to sleep himself.

* * *

Song is "You Are" by Punch Brothers.


	26. Negative: Ships

Sweden notices that Norway is homesick. Being away from his own country for so long has made him both mentally and physically ill. He takes him back to see his homeland during the summer.

Norway is quiet the entire ride there, staring out at the droplets of rain on the window. Sweden doesn't mind the silence—he is working on legal documents—and he knows that Norway enjoys watching nature pass him by.

Norway wants to go the ocean. He later clarifies that he wants to go out to sea. So they take a boat far out into the blue.

Sweden sees Norway jump when a humpback whale breeches the water with its flippers. Norway watches it dive back down into the water. Out of curiosity, he sticks his head into the ocean, arms held tight around the supporting bars of the small fishing vessel, and resurfaces a minute later.

"They're singing," he tells Sweden, and he starts to sing himself.

He takes a deep breath and exhales a high, flat note. Deep breath, low note. He sings with no words, just noises and gibberish, trying to mimic his kin that swim beneath the boats.

"Yer not a bad s'nger, Halv'rd."

Norway smiles back, leans on the guardrails, and sighs out to the sea. He thinks.

"I'll be back," he tells Sweden, before taking off all of his clothes and diving into the world below him.

The coldness of the water, the saltiness of the sea, and the echoes of whalesong bombard his senses immediately. He opens his eyes to a murky world, only vaguely making out the shapes of the whales.

The ocean is alive.

He surfaces, inhales, and dives, riding with the current to take him closer to one of the whales. Her sound is mournful and deep as she breeches the surface again to breathe. Perhaps she had lost her child along her journey across the ocean.

Norway rises and dives again.

He was a lost child himself. He never knew his true mother, or if he even had one. The villagers had raised him, but he knew from an early age that he wasn't of their kind. He was still lost and the women who looked after him were not any of his mothers.

Norway doesn't remember when he began calling the earth itself his Mother.

The land. The sea. The sky. The cosmos. All of these things made up what he called Mother. The force of life itself, nature had always spoken to him in ways other people couldn't understand.

Something about the choir of clicks and wails under the sea had beckoned him to come home.

All life began with the sea.

Maybe the whale—scarred and worn with age—was a blessing from his Mother.

Maybe the childless mother and the motherless child were searching for the same thing.

An answer.

Norway hums under the water. She sings back.

They stare at one another, eye to eye, before she turns and departs, deciding to go and find the place where her heart really belonged, far below the waves in a far off land.

She left Norway to float at the surface, blankly gazing at the gray canopy above him and the rain that began to pour down.

Sweden allowed him to float there in silence, waiting for him to decide for himself when to come back to the boat. He closed his eyes as Norway sang again. High and low, high and low.

Like acids and bases, too high a concentration of one can burn your skin raw.

But together, they create neutrality.

Zen.

Norway swims back the boat and climbs aboard, and Sweden is there waiting with a blanket to warm the other. Curled up on deck, escaping under an enclave of the ship to avoid the rain, Norway rhythmically breathes.

"I think I'm ready," he tells Sweden.

"F'r what?"

He smiles.

"To find my heart again."


	27. Positive: Photographs

Halvard has a photo album that he keeps underneath his bed. It's not really an album, but he refers to it as such. It is, in actuality, of a wooden chest he carved himself, stained dark sienna, filled with things that reminded him of happiness. This is his secret.

He takes it out every once and a while to place something new inside of it, but he rarely sifts through the whole thing.

It's only every few years he has the urge to go through it, to spend an afternoon reading old letters that he received along with snapshots of his life. And there are shells from the beach, silver ornaments from far away places, wooden carvings of the old gods, feathers of blackbirds and bones of mammals. He sorts through it all, filling his living room with strange things.

Jóhannes drops in occasionally and Halvard is oddly excited to show his brother the photos of the two of them from a time long since past.

He holds up a small canvas bag and tosses it to his brother.

"What's this?"

"All of your baby teeth. I've kept ever single one."

Sure enough, the bag is filled with a complete set of a child's teeth.

"Weird."

"Maybe to you it is," Halvard mumbles.

"I don't understand nostalgia and why you keep looking to the past for answers," his brother says, picking up the jawbone of a deer, "Because you can't dwell in the past to find the future."

"That is true, but without understanding your past, you can make the same mistakes again and again."

"You speak from experience."

Halvard swallows.

"I have."

Jóhannes sighs.

"But haven't we all, Halle?"

His brother shrugs and stares at the chest, empty of all its contents.


	28. Negative: Chairs

Norway tells Sweden that the next time there is business to do in Copenhagen, he would like to go along. He's ready to face Denmark.

Over the years, the King of the North has changed, Sweden has noticed. No longer does he meet with Sweden in the lavish halls of the palace nor does he sit on his throne. Instead of the extravagant display of power that Denmark used to flaunt, they meet in a small side room, barely decorated. The chairs, with their dull, fading colors, sag and creak with age.

Denmark knows that he's been fighting a losing battle. He can't struggle against the world forever, and he's started to realize that there are more important things in life than land or military power.

Strength is from the inside. Sometimes, the right thing to do is admit defeat and failure.

Norway does not make it known that he is coming to visit. Instead, in the midst of Sweden's meeting, he opens the door, flinching as it creaks, and stands still with his back to the door. Denmark rises and walks over to him, pausing a pace before him.

Denmark stares at him.

Norway stares back.

"Hej."

"Hei."

Sweden simply observes as the two look at one another, taking into account the differences in each other's forms. But Norway's jaw is clamped shut and Denmark adverts staring into Norway's eyes as he feels the deep blue irises bore into his own.

Denmark reaches forward to touch Norway on the shoulder, but Norway moves out of the way before contact can be made.

Denmark frowns and tries again, but Norway again dodges his fingers and shakes his head. _No._

Sighing, Denmark offers Norway a seat, but the man only takes it after Denmark has sat back down himself.

"It's nice to see you again, Halle," Denmark hesitantly speaks, nodding. He bows his head for a moment. "I'm sorry, and you know what for," he adds, before continuing his conversation with Sweden.

Norway sits there, still as a statue, and listens.

He rises with Sweden as the meeting finishes, but he pauses. Norway taps Sweden to his shoulder and motions with his index finger that he wants to stay for a moment longer.

Sweden nods and departs, leaving Denmark and Norway alone.

"You said you were sorry," Norway states.

"I did. I am sorry, Halle. It's the truth."

"You're an idiot."

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't forgiven yourself."

"I haven't."

Norway pauses.

"You have to forgive yourself before I fully forgive you," he tells him, turning on his heel to follow Sweden down the hall, to return on the road back to Stockholm.

That night, Denmark played a simple but sorrowful song on the piano that he never thought he knew.


	29. Positive: Scent

Halvard is already in bed when Henrik walks up the stairs, weary from the day, heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth and change into his nightclothes. Halvard ignores him, deeply engrossed within a story that leaps across the pages of the soft covered novel within his hands. The spine is bent and worn and the pages folded, but the content makes up for its battered appearance.

Halvard doesn't like the way new books smell, anyway.

_A long time ago, I wondered if I was even supposed to be birthed into this world. My differences, as slight as they were, made me an outcast. And when your social circles feel dry and cold—when none of them really fit you—you try to move on into a new way of life, but you can't leave your individuality behind._

Henrik sighs and crawls into bed, lying back on the pillows with his eyes closed before retrieving a different book from his bedside table. He's further into his than Halvard's, but his has less pages, so he figures they're about even. But Henrik decides that it's not really a fair comparison since the books they have chosen are entirely different in subject matter and style. But that's just the way things are.

Different but together.

_But then I began to realize that there were other people like me. Other people that were different, that felt abandoned, who felt lonely even in the presence of friends and family. People whose hearts had fled and had been unwillingly picked up and stolen by ghosts in the night. The hearth wasn't in the correct home, and without a fire to warm their souls, they became frigid._

Halvard looks up at one point and mentions how he's glad they're sleeping in the same bed, again. They had been apart for so long that Henrik's side of the bed had begun to no longer carry his scent, which Halvard had missed deeply.

_Something about the way you smelled was different to me. You smelled like the earth and I smelled like the sea. And then I met the other ones who all looked different and felt different. These lost people stood differently, ate differently, talked differently. And as foreign as their lips were, we could understand something that was nonverbal and entirely felt from within._

Henrik puts down his book after reading another chapter and closes his eyes, lying back down and turning over onto his side so that he can fall asleep.

"You're getting older," Halvard says, carefully folding the page of his book to mark his spot.

"What dya mean?"

Halvard runs his hand through Henrik's hair. "I see gray. You're becoming an old man."

"I guess."

_You tried to prove to me that you were strong, that you could take care of yourself and protect your friends, that you didn't need anyone to help you, but you were wrong._

Halvard turns out the light and buries himself under the sheets for warmth, shutting his eyes and drifting off into the realm of sleep.

_Strength is not a blazing chariot decorated in gold, inlayed with jewels, with blood on the wheels and axel and shaft. It is not the sword or gunpowder that pierces the lion's hide and gladly eats up land, claiming everything as its own just to create a strong empire._

"…Halle?"

"What?"

"You know, you have gray hair too."

"Just go to bed, Henrik," Halvard says, knowing full well of the effect time has had on both of them.

_Strength is rather a young girl who is not afraid to stick her hand down the throat of a beast and stares into its wild eyes. Strength is knowing yourself and your limits, knowing confidence, and knowing when to drop your arms in defeat and surrender gracefully. Even if your body is weak, if your mind is strong, you can make it through. _

"It doesn't matter to me," Henrik states, and he draws himself closer to Halvard's body so that they can leech off of one another's heat throughout the night and warm each other's ancient bones.

_Time heals all wounds._


	30. Negative: Tea

"I still don't trust you," Norway says, after his fourth meeting with Denmark.

They've had no physical contact, no matter how hard Denmark tries to brush against him. Norway avoids him like the plague.

Denmark sets down his teacup. "You don't have to trust me. I'm still here, though. We're both bitter."

"I more than you. I have nothing. You're a country. "

"A country who is losing land and influence as fast as the crows fly."

"But you still have your freedom."

"Is that what you really want?"

Norway falls silent.

"I think that means, 'yes,'" Denmark grins, and downs the last droplets of his tea.


	31. Positive: Games

"You know I trust you more than anyone in this world," Henrik says, folding away the last of his laundry.

"I know," Halvard says, distracted by the sparrows at the bird feeder.

"Do you trust me?"

"What?"

"Do you trust me, Halle?"

"… Whatever."

"That's not an answer."

"You didn't say that I had to answer specifically to your guidelines and rules."

Henrik clears his throat and rubs his hands together. "According to my specific rules and guidelines that you must answer the following question in association with: do you trust me, Halle?"

"Sure."

"Not acceptable."

"That's a plenty acceptable answer, Henrik. Leave me alone," Halvard scowls, throwing a pillow at him, "Your noisiness is going to scare all the woodpeckers away."

"Say it."

Halvard rolls his eyes.

"Fine. Yes. I trust you. Now leave."

Henrik laughs and leaves Halvard alone to sit with the birds, but he mutters to himself.

"I like these kind of games."

"What was that, Henrik?"

"Oh, nothing, _dear_!"

He books it out the door before Halvard can even detach a sword from the wall to chase him with.

But Henrik can see the playful smirk on Halvard's face, no matter how hard he tries to hide it.


	32. Negative: Reversal: Death

Norway knows it's coming when he finds Sweden's body, bloody and beaten, lying in the hallway. Sweden's faint breathing is the only sign that his heart still beats, and Norway wishes that he could end his suffering.

But he knows that to kill Sweden—to allow the earth to birth his body into being again—would give Norway a three-day span in which he would have to protect himself from Denmark. Alone.

As much as he would like to take Sweden's life, Norway needs him as a decoy.

Iceland is never far from where Norway's feet step. Iceland learned his lesson when Denmark had gotten his hands on him once. He learned from pain that avoiding Denmark was key, and as long as Norway as around, he'd be the secondary target. Norway would defend his brother to the death. He had before.

Even though he was young, he understood that he needed Norway as a decoy.

Iceland's constant reminder of this was the limp in his step, his leg never healing properly. He draws closer to Norway when he hears things crashing and can smell blood. Norway hides himself, but he knows he can't avert Denmark for very long.

Denmark staggers down the hallway, his clothes torn and dirty, blood on his body and in his hair. He stoops like a great raven wounded by a bullet, dragging his body slowly. Although he eventually won, Sweden had torn his body apart and left his mark.

Denmark coughs up crimson onto his palms and ignores the knife sticking in his back, inwardly shivering from the pain that he desperately tries to ignore. He groans and falls to his knees, panting, but even from a distance, Norway can still see the rage and madness in his eyes. He's not himself, and he's not okay.

Norway doesn't blink when Denmark starts to sob. It could be a trick, Norway knows, the scabs and scratches on his back can attest to that. It could be just from the blood loss and pain of his body that is causing Denmark to cry. Or it could be a rare occasion when he snaps back to his senses and realizes what he's been doing.

Norway ignores him all the same. He's eying the knife in Denmark's back. That's all he cares about.

If Denmark dies, that gives him a few days of peace to relax.

If Denmark doesn't die from his wounds, Norway rationalizes that he can further harm him to make death his final destination.

Only the strong and resourceful survive.

Norway creeps up behind Denmark, telling Iceland to stay back, and stealthily pulls out the dagger hidden in his robes. He has no doubt in his mind that this is what he has to do—hesitation does not cross him.

He's done this before.

And it is the fact that Norway has done this before that causes Denmark to catch into his intentions, whirl around, and knock Norway to the floor in a swift motion.

Denmark doesn't want to be killed.

Norway doesn't want to be killed either.

They both scratch and bite one another, Denmark throwing punches and Norway blocking, kicking Denmark off of him and scrambling to find his knife. He flinches, feeling a gash underneath his clothes open from his sudden, frantic movements, warm blood soaking into the already stained bandages, but Norway, fueled by the sheer will to live, ignores it all.

Denmark kicks Norway's blade across the room and staggers. He pauses for a minute before yelling and tackling Norway to the ground again, pinning his legs down this time, and beings to tear him apart.

"You're worthless!" Denmark spits, his voice like gravel, as he bores his fingernails into Norway's body, "And you've always been worthless! Do you hear me Halle? WORTHLESS!"

Denmark gives Norway a final punch and wraps his fingers around his throat. The fear and panic that suddenly flashes in Norway's eyes and face makes Denmark grin, and grin even more so as his subordinate struggles to break free.

With one last burst of strength, Norway pushes his attacker off of him and haphazardly grabs the knife sticking out of Denmark's back, ripping the blade out and plunging it deep into Denmark's stomach.

"You good for nothing _bitch_," Denmark gasps, his entire body shuddering as it prepares for death.

Norway retracts the knife and stabs again, yelling.

And again.

And again.

And even as Denmark falls to the ground, his life extinguished, he continues to strike with the blade, screaming until his voice becomes hoarse and his arms give out.

He's exhausted enough that he cannot bring his shaking legs to stand, so he crawls away from Denmark's mangled body and curls up on the other side of the room, sticky from the blood of himself and his victim.

Or is he really the victim?

Norway sits there, slumped against the wall, and Iceland approaches him, stepping through the pile of blood and ripped flesh like it is only a puddle, and curls up on Norway's lap as if nothing has happened. The elder sibling slowly, weakly, wraps his arms around the other's small body, drawing him in close, and strokes his hair, beginning to cry into Iceland's shoulder.

This has happened uncountable times. He can't do this anymore.

His psyche has been irreversibly damaged.

He is completely and utterly broken.

He's still alive.

He wishes he could die and never come back.


	33. Positive: Life

My leg hurts," Jóhannes grumbles, rubbing his thigh at the kitchen table.

"Growing pains," his brother states from him, sipping at his coffee and glancing at the obituaries in the newspaper.

"I don't think that's it," he replies, "It's only my right leg, and it only happens when the weather starts getting bad. I'm pretty sure I've had it my whole life." He taps his thumbs against the table and shrugs. "Sometimes it gets so bad that I limp a little, you know?"

"I've noticed. It's nothing to be bothered by."

Jóhannes sighs, his breath slipping through the fingers he wraps around his chin, thinking. "That's not true. When you say things like that, that means that you know something and that it should bother me."

Halvard ignores him and drowns his voice in coffee.

Jóhannes knows that this is a sign that his brother doesn't want to speak. So he fills the empty void between them by making small talk.

"You're going out with Berwald today, right?"

"Yes."

"You're close."

Halvard pauses. "I guess."

"You guess? You lived with him for a long time."

"That I did."

Jóhannes pauses and stares upward at the ceiling, examining the wooden beams that keep his brother's house together.

"I know that Berwald helped you get better."

"Excuse me?"

"I remember more than you think," he smiles, "And I know how much of a wreck you—no, it wasn't just you—all of you were. I've been told enough. Don't act like I'm oblivious, because I'm not."

He watches Halvard's fingers wrap tightly around the ceramic cup in his hands. He knows, from the harshness of his eyes, the particular tinge of emotion that shimmers in the blue, that these words bother his brother.

"You were never supposed to know," Halvard says between grit teeth, "And it's better off if you forget everything."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Jóhannes tells him, "Everyone goes through rough patches in life. There will always be spilled blood and broken windowpanes, but wounds heal and windows can be replaced. So don't try and act strong, Halle, because I believe that you're as held back by your emotions and your past as the rest of us. Maybe even more so."

Jóhannes knows that it is his time and place to go, so he stands. "Have fun with Berwald today," he wishes, grabbing his coat off the back of the chair, putting it on hastily. "Thanks for letting me stay over."

"You're my brother, you're welcome whenever. I like it when you're here."

"Berwald, Henrik, and Tino are to some extent your siblings as well."

"You don't need to tell me that."

"I'm just saying."

Jóhannes makes his way out the door, but pauses, spinning around.

"Oh, you know the nest of sparrows? They hatched today. I saw their mother feed them insects."

"Did you, now," his brother replies dryly, feigning disinterest.

"Spring is coming. Life starts over."

"Such is the nature of beginnings, brother."

Jóhannes shrugs and opens the door, letting it rattle behind him as he ventures out. But they both can hear the nestlings beg for food from their nest. They both know that not all of the birds will survive—some now, some later.

Halvard pulls out the small notepad in his breast pocket and a black pen, the end bearing chew marks from when Henrik had used it to write the grocery list one day. He clicks the worn top and writes.

_But Death always claims you, no matter what happens. It doesn't matter if your body decomposes into the earth today or tomorrow. The bonds that connect atom-to-atom, molecule-to-molecule, and tissue-to-tissue eventually work their way back to raw, pure form. The same material that comprises your fingertips could very well be the same that composed the fins of a shark. Or a mountain range that no longer exists on this planet. What you know as yourself could have been partly created by the birth of a star. It is almost foolish to think that your "body" hasn't severed other purposes over time. You are not simply alive or dead and that is the end of it. Things are recycled._

Halvard feels the last particles of caffeine dissolve on his tongue and beings to trace the ring of stain that his cup has left on the coaster he's used for several decades.

_So the birds that are too weak and fall out of the nest into a cat's jaws or are poisoned by chemicals released into the air in some far off land, they still serve a purpose. From their bodies spring more life. It as almost as if a phoenix resides in everything, and when we burst into flames at the end of our conscious lives, new life comes from it._

_In that regard, there is no "away" or "end." Which as an idea, is very curious to consider. _

He puts down his pen and falls asleep at the table, the sound of young birds and budding tulips ringing in his old ears.


	34. Negative: Independence

Sweden had not been expecting Norway to suddenly strike and seize victory.

But at the same time, he knew it was going to happen eventually. Their respective countries had always been polarized like magnets, and the forces between them continued to weaken day by day.

Sweden's iron grasp on Norway could not and would not hold back the will of the people.

And through rushed, hectic politics, the Kingdom of Norway now shone again, hundreds of years since it last had breathed, free from a foreign ruler. Free from Sweden. Free from Denmark. Free from everyone.

The four hundred years of darkness had passed.

And the subsequent oppression had vanished like smoke.

Of course there was celebration, but Norway lurked in the shadows, hidden behind decorations and shying away from the lights illuminating the many politicians and heroes of the struggle.

He was approached by nations. America gave him a slap on the shoulder and a thumbs up, where as Japan bowed and nodded, slightly smiling. Norway was polite, but hurriedly rushed them along so that he could stay in his corner of the room with only his thoughts as company.

He froze when he saw his brother.

Iceland entered the room without the same life in his step he had as a child. His lips pursed, eyebrows perpetually slanted, he showed signs of adulthood even though he was no older than fourteen. He had strayed from Denmark, running ahead of him, and locked his violet eyes on Norway instantly.

But he turned away, not even noticing or registering whom it was he had locked eyes with.

Norway was dumbfounded.

His own brother didn't know him anymore.

He shrunk deeper into the stone wall, flattening himself against the surface, and wished that he could change the pale pigment of his skin to match the ugly, flaking green wallpaper. Like a chameleon, changing colors to reflect the mood, he wished he could shift his form into something else. With that skill, he could stay perfectly invisible and would no longer have to deal with the thousands of burns and stings that came with life.

But he was not meant to hide. He was meant to lead.

He was happy for his country, his people, but he didn't feel right. His voice, healed with no cracked flaws, still wispy and husky, was the same as it had been many years ago when Harald Fairhair united the Norwegians before. Norway was filled and swelled with the pride as his citizens celebrated, as his hair and flesh glowed with health without any imperfections, but he remained melancholy.

He may have been better, but he was still not his best.

And he wasn't the only one.

Conversation lulled when Russia skipped into the party, trailing behind him a myriad of nations he had taken as his own. He quickly shook Norway's hand before giggling and wandering off, but one of his prized objects stayed behind.

Finland waved lazily and smiled, his eyes heavy and his face gloomy despite his cheerfulness. He reminded Norway of a ghost as he slipped into the shadows beside him, folding his hands behind him and sighing.

"Hey there, Halle."

Norway nodded, but frowned. "You're hiding too, aren't you?"

"Yeah," he said halfheartedly, his shoulders sagging. "You understand it. I know you do. Wanting to hide."

"You have to talk to him sometime, Tino."

"Same goes for you," Finland smiles, "I'll talk to Berwald sooner than you'll talk to Henrik. You should take your own advice."

Norway snorts and sinks deeper into the wall.

"Don't have anything else to say, Halle?"

"No."

"I do; I wish I were like you, sometimes."

"You mean a country?"

"Well, yes," he blinks, "But that's not what I meant."

"Then what?"

"You fake your strength and your indifference so well. You had me fooled for the longest time. You can frighten people to leave you alone, you can be threatening and demanding without even lifting a finger. I envy that. You do it so well that you even fool yourself into disregarding your emotions—"

"—That's not a good thing, Tino."

"You didn't let me finish. If you can act strong, that means that you are strong. It takes more strength to pretend and lie than it does to be truthful to yourself and others."

Norway swallows, pressing his fingers together and sighs at the ceiling, eyebrows pointed downwards as he allows sadness sweep over his face like a tidal wave, the sides of his usually expressionless face pointing down towards the earth.

"Are you saying I should stop lying?"

"I'm just saying that it would be easier," Finland smiles, surprising Norway with a quick hug. He mouths "good luck," pats him on the shoulder, and shuffles off, looking at his black shoed feet.

Norway doesn't know what to say and feels as if he has nothing important to say, and his thoughts, swarming around the reflection that Finland had given him, are interrupted as Spain joyously appears next to him, having prepared a celebratory poem for such an occasion.

Norway rolls his eyes and only half listens as he scans the crowd for ivory hair and an obnoxious smile.

**...**

Sweden feels his heart stop when he sees Finland.

They find a secluded place, and all they do for hours is talk. Their relationship, even if they only consider themselves good friends, is long and complicated. Even if they care for one another, history has to be sorted out. Mistakes are made and need to be recognized, apologized for, and buried to rest. Love needs to be confirmed or denied, either wilting like a rose in the desert, petals withering, or blooming like a daisy in the middle of a wide meadow. They both need to reestablish their lives, not just with one another, but with themselves.

They aren't the only ones.

**...**

"You seem so thin now," Denmark whines in concern. "You're bigger, but ya don't look very well."

"You're horrible."

"You're so little."

"Shut up."

"But I'm worried. And I'm afraid. I can't just stand here saying nothing. Something has to be said."

"I don't care for your idiocy or heartfelt musings. That's not why I'm here."

"Then why? Why did you seek me out? What is it that you want?"

"To see if you've repaired yourself as well."

"You're implying that I was broken to begin with."

"You were."

"Maybe."

"You were."

"… You're right."

Denmark scratches his chin, shifting his weight, continuing. "You're right. But I've changed. And so have you. And whether that's for the better or the worse—that's a question of relativity. And even if we don't like one another anymore, I still care, because even if we both move on, you were my closest friend growing up and you always will be. And that's something that can't be changed."

Denmark raises a hand to touch Norway, but pauses, hesitating, and swallows. He knows he's not supposed to touch him—his temptation to make contact is overwhelming—but he controls himself and sighs. He begins to retract the hand back. But he jumps when Norway's fingers wrap around his wrist, yanking his arm back forward to rest on Norway's shoulder.

He's touching him.

He's touching him.

He's touching _him_.

"It's okay now. You've changed. You've gotten better," Norway says, fidgeting. "You've forgiven yourself. At least, partially. That's good enough for now."

"It bothers you, doesn't it?"

"What does?"

"Me touching you."

"No."

"Don't lie."

"Alright," Norway's shoulders sag, sighing, and he stares at Denmark. "It does bother me. Because I'm still afraid of you—of want you _could_ do—even though I know you won't do it again. My memories can't be erased. And I don't want to forget. Yes. I am afraid of you touching me. But I have to start somewhere. We have to start somewhere."

Norway leans forwards, stepping carefully, and rests his head in the crook of Denmark's shoulder, his heart beating in nervousness. Not because he's nervous over the past, not because he's nervous that his mind will react to the contact in panic, but because he's afraid he'll say something that he doesn't really mean.

Denmark starts to shift his arms to wrap them around Norway's shoulders, but he stops.

"… Can I?"

"Yes."

And gently, very carefully, Denmark embraces him.

"I want to say that I hate you, but that would be a lie," Norway scowls, gripping the folds of Denmark's coat tighter, "I want to say that I love you, but I don't feel like that's something I need to say."

"I understand."

"Those are the two most important words you've ever said."

**...**

That night, they laid outside and stared at the northern lights as the friends they once were, curled up on a quilt without touching one another. As the aurora flared like stellar fire, quenching the night's thirst like cool mountain water, they spoke.

"Halle, what in the world are we going to do with ourselves?"

"Continue living, Henrik, one day at a time, because that's the only thing we can do."


	35. Positive: Radio

He had come out here to get away from everyone.

Henrik tapped his fingers against the dashboard, humming quietly along to the tune playing on the radio, closing his eyes and leaning back against the wrinkled leather of the car seat. The rain pouring down drummed on the outside of the machine's metal frame.

Henrik turns down the volume, turns up the heat, and tunes out.

Until he hears thumping.

Shaking the sleepiness out of his eyes, Henrik wipes his window free of condensation to see what is going on.

Behind the film of water is a crumpled receipt pressed against the window, with a single word scrawled in black sharpie, ink running from the excessive amount of water.

_Hei,_ it says.

He blinks for a moment, and rubs his eyes again.

The paper gone for a minute, but then returns, smacked onto the glass with such force that the sound echoes through the entire car.

_Open, you fool!_ written underneath the original message.

Henrik rolls down the window and finds himself staring up at a very irritated, familiar face.

"Hej Halle," he waves, grinning.

"Are you going to open the passenger's side or not?" Halvard pouts, shifting his umbrella to the other nook of his shoulder while crumpling up the receipt in his fist. He throws this at Henrik and the small wad bounces off his head and lands somewhere within the abyss that is the back seat of Henrik's car.

"Yeah, yeah. You caught me napping, sorry."

He unlocks the door and rolls up the window, yawning when Halvard pushes himself inside, soaking wet. Upon slamming the door shut, he strips himself of his raincoat and stuffs it under the seat. He shivers and sighs, rubbing his cold hands.

"Rainin' hard?"

"Blowing sideways, a little."

"Yuck. How did you know where to find me?"

"Jói told me."

Henrik frowns. "I told him not to tell anyone. I wanted to be alone for a while."

"Are you saying you aren't glad to see me after my twenty year absence?"

"Don't get me wrong, I'm glad to see you. I'm just surprised you'd make this much of an effort to find me now, out in the middle of nowhere in the rain, when you could've just waited for me back in the house with your brother."

"I wanted to see you immediately."

"Is there a reason why?"

"No logical reason."

Henrik laughs and pecks a quick kiss on Halvard's lips. "You haven't changed a bit, man."

Halvard smiles. "Neither have you."

They embrace awkwardly, a vehicle not the best place to hold a reunion, but they ignore their location and grasp onto one another tightly before letting go. They sit quietly, staring at one another, listening to the sound of the rain and the faint notes of the radio as their fingers intertwine like roots.

"You're still wearing that gaudy hairpin I gave you, centuries ago. Why?"

"The same reason why you keep that necklace I gave you centuries ago tucked away in a box under your pillow at night."

"And what's the reason?"

"Remembrance of love."

"That's awfully sappy of you."

"Like you aren't the same way constantly?"

"Maybe."

"Loser."

"Love you too."

"…Yeah."

"I got another token of remembrance for you, actually."

"Oh?"

Henrik grins, letting go of Halvard's palms to clap his own together. "Do you remember the doll you used to tote around with you when we were really young?"

"You mean the rabbit? The one that was burned when the village was set on fire?"

"Yeah, that one."

"Open the glove box. That's for you."

Halvard fidgets, gingerly clicking the compartment open and reaching inside to pull out a wrapped present. He hesitates, looking at Henrik questioningly, before tearing off the patterned, colorful paper.

"Oh," he says, blinking, pulling out a stuffed pink plush of a rabbit.

"I made the entire thing myself, to make it more authentic, I guess. Tried to do everything like we did back then. And I mean everything. I even dyed the color myself."

"Well, I don't think Mr. Bunny was this light shade of pink. I remember him more of a red color."

"Really? I remember pink…"

"I'm just being picky, Henrik. It's in my nature. Don't be too hard on yourself. Don't look at me like I just kicked a puppy and slaughtered it. And besides, I love it, and I love that you put so much time and effort into making such a gift. I don't have anything as good to give to you."

"Is that true?"

"Yes. And you know what else I love?"

"What?"

"You."

Halvard watched as Henrik paused, turned away, and started to cry. It wasn't as if he hadn't heard Halvard say that before, and it wasn't as if he had any great need to cry, so he just shrugged when Halvard asked him what was wrong with him. He thought about it further as he buried his head into his old friend's shoulder, and decided that if there was an answer to it that he could express with words, it'd have to be this:

"It's been too long since we've seen each other," he sobbed, and Halvard nodded in agreement.

He had come out here to get away from everyone.

But the world had other ideas in mind for him.

They spent an hour, sitting in silence with their eyes closed and ears open, basking in the warmth and humidity of the summer rain.

The radio crackled like crisp dry paper.

The rain smelled faintly of wet moss and tears.

On the fogged windows, Halvard wrote messages with light strokes of his slender fingers. Messages that would disappear, swept away by rough palms and August heat. Messages that only they could only see, for this short, fleeting moment in time.

But they were happy, even as Halvard put is raincoat back on, carrying the rabbit with him back down the dirt road to leave Henrik alone to rest his mind alone.

Distance can be important.

It can also destroy relationships.

But like everything, balance.

Henrik's consciousness drifts away, and he dreams of a warm bed, Halvard, and the light scent of cinnamon.


	36. Negative: War

The war had just begun.

And spoils and prizes had already been taken and claimed.

The previous war was supposed to be the war to end all wars. But people don't behave in accordance to kindhearted ideals as frequently as some would like to think.

In Copenhagen, Norway stands on the street corner and makes his way through the young night, cool and crisp, passing rows of colored houses and old wooden windows, combing the neighborhood for a house he knows all too well. He finds it—a small, but cozy, rickety building that he has slept on the floor of many times.

Norway doesn't even bother knocking on the door. He's not surprised to find it open, and he slips in silently, muttering something about the disarray of Denmark's creaky house, filled with newspapers with dates long since passed and dishes cleaned, but not put away. He searches through the rooms in search of Denmark, but the only thing he finds is an unsettling stillness, cobwebs, and clouds of dust particles floating in the air like gnats.

"Henrik!" he finally calls out from the top of the stairs, finding Denmark's bed neatly made and untouched for days.

No verbal response, but with keen ears, Norway can hear the slightest sound of glass clinking and fabric rubbing against fabric. He descends down the staircase slowly, glancing in confusion to see if he can pinpoint the noise.

"Henrik!" Norway yells again, kicking a pile of books over, if only to release the tension within his own mind. He can feel his people and his leaders struggling to come up with a solution to stop the warfare, and that panic that spreads like an invisible rash over Norway's country and body. He immediately feels bad for the books—even though he knows it is silly to think that books have emotions or sense of feeling—and he sighs, crouching down and picking up their stained covers with utmost care as he stacks them perfectly on top of one another.

"Henrik," he barks, standing to his feet and shoving his hands into his pockets, "I don't have time for this. You have five seconds before I tear your house apart beam by beam."

"Would'ya just be quiet," is his slurred response, coming from a slightly cracked voice from behind the couch, "'m tryin' ta be alone here."

Norway promptly ignores Denmark's statement, trudging over as _loudly_ and _obnoxiously_ as he can muster and peers over the side of the couch with judging eyes.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Why the hell are ya here?"

"Don't answer my question with another question."

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Denmark groans, scratching through his hair—greasy from gel residue and days of not washing—"I'm drinking."

Norway recoils at the reeking odor of beer on Denmark's breath and finally realizes just how many glass bottles are littered throughout his house, littering the floor and furniture as if Denmark was stockpiling glass.

This has been going on for a while.

"You're not just drinking. You're binge drinking."

"Yeah."

"You can drink till your heart stops, for all I care," Norway grumbles, "I came here to see how you were handling being taken over, and obviously I can tell the answer is 'not very well'."

"I may no longer exist," Denmark laments, "Ever again. 'nd I don't know how ta handle that."

"Now you know what it was like to be me."

"It's not the same."

Norway scoffs and allows himself to space out, becoming lost in his own thoughts, before coming up with what he really wanted to tell Denmark all along.

"I'm not giving up like you did. I'm going to keep my authority over my people."

"It would've been fruitless fer me ta keep on fightin'," Denmark says, cracking open another beer and downing half the glass. "There's a point were stubb'rness is just stupid."

"If you're going to keep drowning your sorrows in booze, I'm not going to talk to you."

"Like you don't drink and do the same thing, Halle?"

Norway stays quiet and glares at him, the fire in his eyes echoing the glaze of bombs and bullets that were spreading over Europe. He cries out in anger, grabbing one of the emptied bottles, and smashes it against the floor, brown glass scurrying across the ground like mice running from a cat. He throws another out Denmark's open window and hears it smash along the street.

"Ya done yet?" Denmark smiles lazily, teasingly, licking traces of alcohol off of his lips.

"I'm NOT going to be controlled again," Norway hisses, anger seething through his being like hot electricity, "I'm going to fend them off and win."

"No, yer not, Halle."

Grabbing another bottle, Norway throws it with such force that Denmark narrowly misses it hitting his head. He dodges another and another, as Norway screams at him, the floor becoming littered with broken glass. Hiding behind the couch until all he can hear is heavy, exasperated breathing, Denmark peers over the faded floral cushions, but sees nothing.

"Halle?"

A sharp blow to his head makes him gasp and he stumbles, feeling something sharp slash his cheek. Denmark touches his cheek and winces, pulling out a thin shard of glass and feeling his sticky blood rush to close the wound over. He looks up to see Norway standing over him, his eyes wild and his breathing erratic.

"Some friend you are," he hisses into Denmark's ear, gripping him by his shirt collar briefly before letting him go. Norway turns around, purposefully trying to crush the many shards of broken glass under his thick, heavy boots.

"Good luck," Denmark sighs, the blood matting into the fine hair on his unshaven face, "You'll need it."

"I don't need someone like you to tell me that."

Norway leaves hurriedly, knowing that if he stays to let his rage fade, he'll end up feeling sorry and foolish. He slams the door shut and runs down the street as far as his legs can carry him.

"I'll see ya after the war, love," Denmark says, toasting his drink to the naked full moon and spends the rest of the night downing bottles until he passes out to the sound of his own sobbing.


	37. Positive: Peace

The war had just ended.

But this was a different war.

This was a war not fought with weapons, but with ideals, politics, and threat of nuclear annihilation. As America and Russia met in Iceland's capital, the whole world watched as the very thing that had defined years of culture eroded, washed away by the tide into history as another footnote on another page.

In the background of the signing was a young boy, white haired with a faint trace of fading, childish freckles, grinning awkwardly as he fumbled with the ends of his clothes, obviously uncomfortable even though he wasn't the center of attention. The television faded from the scene, a new shot, and a new bulletin appearing underneath while the newscaster continued to ramble and chatter.

Halvard, sitting amused on the couch next to Berwald, set the remote aside and pointed at where the strange boy used to be.

"Poor Jóhannes. He doesn't know what to do with himself."

"'s a big th'ng."

"Of course it is. The Cold War is over."

"Nn."

Halvard turns off the television, tired of the same sound bites and same words being repeated, and sits there.

"You are kind of like my other brother," he sighs, curling up against Berwald's chest and breathing in the musky smoky wood smell that was interlaced in between the fibers of Berwald's clothes. He chuckles to himself before wrapping his arms around Berwald's neck, sighing, and enjoying the thumping sound of the larger man's heart. It soothed Halvard, and he began to dose off, eyelids drooping as he concentrated on that single steady sound.

"Nn. No sleep."

When Halvard didn't move, Berwald shifted himself, unlatching him from his body and pushing him back.

"You saying you don't like me?" Halvard said, the characteristic tinge of sarcasm in his voice.

"Nah. Like ya. But 'f Tino er Henrik saw, they'd be jealo's."

Halvard moved, stretching his limbs, his bones cracking as he stood to his feet for a moment before falling back against the couch again.

"Thanks."

"Mn?"

"For being there for me when times got rough."

"Ya help'd me too."

"I did not."

"Ya kept me comp'ny when I was lonely."

"We couldn't be with people we wanted to be with, so we settled for one another. Pathetic."

"Eh."

"…You're still important to me, even if I don't love you."

"Ya too."

"I'm glad."

_There is something about deep platonic love that is hard to explain. You care so deeply for someone, and yet you don't want them as your lover. Best friends, is a close phrase, but not even that describes the kind of relationship that platonic love is. But a lot of things don't need to be described. They are just fine as they are—pure, simple, and unwavering._

"'n the last letter ya sent ta Henrik. What d'ya say?"

Halvard freezes, sitting up, biting his lower lip.

"I can do better than tell you. I can show you. Henrik gave it back to me."

Berwald gave him a strange look. "Nn?"

"It still exists."


	38. pH1: Adam and Eve and Icarus

_Dear Henrik Pedersen_

_Hei,_

_I am going to spare you the details of my current life and skip the expected "How are you," talk. Things like these have no meaning to me right now, Henrik. This will be the last letter I write to you. I feel like the only way to continue is to separate myself from you. You're just as stuck as I am, and talking is no longer helping. Even if you write a letter back, I will issue no response. _

_I've been thinking about myths. Not just the ones that the elders taught us, but the ones from far away that came here a long time ago on ships from across the sea. They are ingrained into our soil and are as native as the wolves and spruce trees that litter themselves across the landscape. Holy books of other peoples that we once fought against have now become ours. _

_The theory of the origin of man across lands and cultures is perplexing. Nobody knows how humans came to be. Nobody even knows how we as nations came to be. And maybe we'll never know. But some say that Adam and Eve were kicked out of paradise because they gained knowledge and we fell along with them._

_People deemed that foolish. By knowing too much, by knowing what is black and what is white, their childlike folly was ripped from them. To take a bite of an apple is to be burdened with thought and memory. _

_They were simply a man and a woman, equal. _

_Like us, they made mistakes. _

_You can say sorry a thousand times, but that doesn't erase what happened._

_I think that it wasn't your fault that you were greedy for land and soil. It's natural to consume more to become stronger, to become unstoppable. Our leaders tell us that it is the right thing to do rather than to be content with what we have. We are moved by force and by false reason to behave this way. _

_But you bit off more you could chew. You couldn't swallow the sun, and you fell, waxed wings melting off of your back like Herakles's Icarus, plummeting towards the wild ocean. _

_And I couldn't help you. None of us could. _

_I can't say that things will go back to the way they were. To purposefully forget would be wasteful, and although it would make life easier, would make life less meaningful, I feel. Knowing what doesn't work is as important and as knowing what does. _

_Maybe it is wrong to say that Adam and Eve got kicked out of Heaven, having learned that knowledge is sin._

_I don't believe sin exists. Good and bad are relative. "Thinking makes it so," Hamlet said._

_Maybe it is more correct to say that Adam and Eve moved on to a place that was harsher, but where life was more fulfilling. I've come to realize that hardship only makes you stronger, as much as it breaks you too. Without the negatives, there can be no positives. Libra's scales are not always balanced. Like a pendulum, life swings. _

_And maybe Icarus fell upwards, if you looked at him from another angle._

_I'll see you again some distant day in the future, but for now this is goodbye. I wish you the best of luck sorting your problems out, and know that I will be just as busy sorting mine. _

_Halvard __Sørensen_

_24 August 1866_


	39. pH14: Loki and Sigyn and Socrates

_Dear Halle Sørensen_

_Hej,_

_I'll keep this brief as to not waste your time or mine._

_I'm saddened that we won't continue to talk, but I think I have to agree with you that this is for the best, for the both of us. _

_What you said about Adam and Eve reminded me of our Loki, trapped under the earth, and Sigyn, who loyally tries to ease her husband's suffering. Without payment or reward, she toils out of sheer love and admiration. A strong woman, she, out of sheer willpower, continues even though she knows it may be pointless._

_I'm sorry I was not strong enough to be your Sigyn._

_I'm sorry madness turned me into a monster. I've said it over and over again, I know, but I truly mean it. Socrates said once that "No one desires evil," and I believe that to be true. Everyone strives to do good, but "good" is such a amorphous word, as you described. Neither of us wanted to hurt the other, we just became blinded by choices and decisions that were not our own, but of our people. Wickedness happens, whether it be with intent or carried out by folly._

_We are no longer as great as we once were. New powers grow to replace the old. And we must accept what we have and not be wavered by the ideas of mediocrity and materialism. Schleswig, Holstein, and Saxe-Lauenburg is no longer mine, and as my lands continue to be taken from me, I have to learn this and become happy with what I have rather than want what I have not. _

_I told myself I was not going to ramble, but I am…_

_I guess what I want to say is that we are like two trees intertwining. We may not have the same shaped leaves or same shade of bark, but we can coexist. And I think that, above all, is what I want._

_Until we meet again, I wish you all the best._

_Henrik Pedersen_

_1 September 1866_


	40. Neutrality: Equilibrium

Jóhannes takes his black-and-white wool mittens with matching hat off at the door, letting them flutter to the floor while unlacing his thick boots, throwing those on the side too as his coat slides off his slender frame. He coughs twice, sniffling, and calls out that he's home from the store; he's brought another carton of milk home.

Tino comes out to meet him and takes it from him, feeling Jóhannes' forehead and sighing. He's warm, and he should take a nap while everyone else cooks. He shakes his head and coughs again—the economic crisis isn't going well—but he grins and says that he can handle it. He may be under the weather, but he's not helpless. He'll make the cookies. It's simple and mindless and it's something that he doesn't mind doing.

In the kitchen, the three old kingdoms have divided work between them, each cutting, chopping, mixing, or slicing something different. They work with the sound of the television but aren't really listening—Henrik is talking about politics and Halvard is only half listening to Berwald arguing back. They all smile when Jóhannes comes in, and he and Tino settle into their own spots working.

Henrik says he's had enough with politics after Berwald pins down his argument and insults it, so he pokes the channel button on the television with his nose—his hands are covered in oil and grease—searching for something else to serve as background noise. Everyone unanimously says "no" in their respective ways when they stop on the children's channel. Henrik finally stops on a music channel and knows the song, and he sets back to work belting out the lyrics, not quite in-tune, but close enough that nobody really complains.

While they wait for everything to cook, Berwald and Henrik drive to go pick up Peter while the three remaining nations play cards. Jóhannes loses every time, and he mutters something about him being a magnet for misfortune. Halvard hears him and tells him that it is not the least bit true.

When Berwald and Henrik come back with Peter, they eat even though the sun hasn't even begun to set yet. The meal is good, and they all finish, content, filling the void in between bites with idle chatter.

They digest while playing a board game. Jóhannes continues to lose every time. He gives up after a while and tells everyone that he's tired from his sickness (and he's not lying—his cheeks are bright pink and he's not fully awake, his sinuses clogged) and would like nothing more than to go to bed and rest. Everyone wishes him goodnight, and he's bombarded with kisses on the cheek. He wants to say that he's too old for such things, but he just accepts it this time, crawling up the stairs and into bed, falling asleep instantly.

Berwald and Tino decide to watch a movie with Peter after the child grows tired of the game, and they ask of Henrik and Halvard want to join them, but they decide not to.

They are going on a walk.

…

The sky is murky teal with dim splatters of starlight staining the growing night, grains of sand placed in the ocean that is the universe. The birds that will stay for the winter flock, swarming into the air as they find their homes for the night. The trees give off warmth, scientists say, even during the darkest of winters, keeping their wingtips from freezing.

Under these trees, devoid of their summer green, they walk. The earth hasn't dyed her hair white yet, and so only dirt and decaying matter crunches under Henrik's boots, laced tightly to keep out the cold.

Their fingertips touch and interlock.

Halvard sighs, his breath exiting through his body and disappears with a puffy white swirl. They can see flecks of orange light through the gray limbs of trees from houses and streetlamps. The sidewalks are empty, cracked and disfigured with age and neglect, but the forest is always alive with some sort of magic, even when it is dead like this.

Halvard claims that he can see it, sometimes, this force. He lets go of Henrik's hand and reaches into his pocket for pen and the little worn notebook. He scribbles quickly, to not let the thought escape him.

"Whatcha writin'?" Henrik asks him, trying to peer over his shoulder.

"A secret."

"You think too much. You write and dwell, but get nowhere. Just live. It's easier that way."

"Maybe."

They touch palms again.

…

The two leave twin sets of imprints in the mellow earth, soft, natural, and easily erased from time. Henrik looks up into the trees, pointing up and smiling at the murder of crows that sail through the air and land soundlessly on twigs, like disfigured fingers jutting off of the tree's limbs. They both stop, their world enveloped by the cackling, crackling gurgle of the bird's words. Jet black feathers calm and smooth as the their journey ends, but fight amongst themselves, snapping and clawing with one another, fighting to be on the topmost roost. Halvard remembers reading that crows do this to assert their role as the alpha male. If you obtain the top, you get the crown until someone else pushes you downwards.

Chattering. Guttural. Barbaric harbingers of death. Messengers from the gods. Huginn and Muninn. The caretakers of the dead. Wandering souls. Rank. Numerous. Alien. Misunderstood.

The marauders do not stop their speech, and some are even daring enough to claim their trees the highest, standing up on their soapbox and crowing to the coming darkness. Even as Henrik and Halvard feel the warmth seep out of the seams of their coats, the avian patch-worked misfits continue to raise the woods into an uproar. The birds sing of their empty bellies and the harshness of what is to come, just in case somebody cares. Just in case somebody listens.

Halvard tugs Henrik's coat, and they continue, leaving their four-toed brothers behind. But something remains ringing in his eardrums that is neither the sound of his own heartbeat or the echoing birds.

"_Yer just find'in life again. Yer startin' over. Ya gotta find yer feath'rs, bird."_

Berwald, he remembers, said those words to him long ago. Halvard reasons that if he could see the metaphorical feathers he grew back, they'd be sooty and slick with oil, unpleasant and rough as they sliced through life like a hot knife. Thick and protective, impermeable to all things natural and some things not, his wings were laden down like anchors, keeping him steady from the tides and winds of the sea.

His feet were rooted to the soil, to his mother and all things good.

"_Don't drown, bird."_

He didn't. He lived. Something he had no choice in. But he made it. And maybe he was happier. He was happier. He sank, surfaced, and in the future, he'd probably sink again, one day.

Goosebumps run up and down his arms, and he maneuvers himself closer to Henrik, wrapping his arms around his waist. He's not frightened of this. He's accepted the fact that for now, things are good, things are happy, but his realist-pessimistic view whispers to him that there is always room for doubt and suffering is just another name for tomorrow.

He bites his tongue, and tells himself that he's wrong. Wishes that he's wrong.

Is wrong.

…

"_Don't drown,"_ Halvard writes in his notebook, a reminder to his future self if he ever becomes lost again. He'll find land. Or his scaly legs will become fins and he'll learn to breathe in the empty ocean. Adaptation, evolution, ingenuity. The things that make future generations better.

They can see glowing of porch lights in between the trees and they know they are nearly out of the woods.

And Halvard has confidence in himself to let go. He is not dependent. He is an individual, not to be paired with his brother or with Henrik or with Berwald. Not to be bunched together into a collective force. He's had enough days not being allowed to be who he wants to be, enough nights of false names and pretending. He is Halvard Sørensen. He is Norway. He is exactly who he always knew he was. And he is all he ever wanted to be.

He stops when they reach a fork in the road. Henrik stops with him and he watches Halvard slip from his grasp and step backwards until they are completely apart.

Both of them know, no matter which path they take, they will both end up back at Berwald's house. They'll spend the night in the guest room, as already planned. They both know that they have the same destination, the same goal, the same desire.

But Halvard picks up a nearby stick and hastily draws a line between them.

"We're separate," he says.

"I see that."

"You can't follow me."

"Why not?"

"Because," Halvard begins, "Sometimes you have to move forward by yourself."

"_I don't mean to say that I don't like you, that I don't care, that I don't need you_," he thinks,_" I mean to say that balance is what we both need. Time together, time alone."_

Halvard nods to himself and turns on his heel, digging his fingers into his pockets for warmth. He looks over his shoulder at Henrik and grins widely before he races down the untraveled road into the blackness of night. He remains, like he's always been, an elusive person, impossible to catch, as mythical as the creatures he claims to see.

Maybe not impossible.

"I'll meet you back home," whispers Henrik, and he turns to follow his own trail, racing through the trees with such velocity that the entire world becomes a blur, only stopping to catch his breath when he sees Halvard standing on the porch of Berwald's house, bathed in soft orange light, panting, but still smiling.

Henrik loudly announces that they're home as he storms into the house, dragging Halvard in with him, and the two of them can't help but laugh. The door closes.

The rest is silence.


	41. Afterward: Farewell, Thanks, and Extras

Farewell

Total number of words, not including notes, forward, etc: 18,190

Total number of pages (on my computer): 65

This makes Silence the longest piece of writing I've ever done. Ever. I've written long fics before, but I've often found they lost their impact the longer I continued to write. I don't believe this is the case with Silence, which makes it a milestone in my years of writing fanfiction, I suppose.

This is also the first fic I started posting on the internet before I had finished the entire thing. I think that made me not give up halfway through, like I do with many other fics.

So for now, this is farewell. But at the same time, I'm still going to write Hetalia, so it's not entirely goodbye, is it?

Thanks

There are many people I need to thank.

Thank you to** Amberspike-Sama** for being my friend for… I believe it's six or seven years now. You've shaped me in ways you can't even begin to fathom, and I know I've done the same for you. Without you, there wouldn't be any of this writing.

Thank you to **PurpleWolfStar** for introducing me to Hetalia, the intricate nature of Denmark and Norway's relationship, and helping me through a rough time in my life. With you supporting me every step I take, I feel strong, and I hope I do the same with you. Without you, I don't think I'd have as much confidence in myself as I do now.

Thank you to **Hannersheep **and **jceland** for beta-ing a few chapters and just being there for me in general. You guys are great friends, I don't know what I'd do without you; I don't think I've grown close this quickly to anyone as fast as you two. Without you, I don't think I'd know myself as much as I do now.

And thank you to all of you who read this fic. Even if you didn't review, it means a lot that you bothered to click this fic and read through all of its 39 chapters.

It means a lot.

Extras

For those of you who like music, I'd like to share with you my playlist of music I listened to while writing. Consider it a present from me to you. I don't know if my music taste will be well-liked, but nonetheless, I consider this all very good writing music.

**Song name – Band – Any special time I used this song especially**

Springleik – Gåte – Negative: Switch (Chapter 1)

Curtigh (Bonus Track) – Punch Brothers – Positive: Siblings (Chapter 13)

Packt Like Sardines in a Crush'd Tin Box – Radiohead – Negative: Vault (Chapter 18)

The Blind Leaving the Blind Mvt 2 – Punch Brothers – Any chapter with Denmark in it

Fljótavík – Sigur Rós – Positive chapters

Two Hearted (Bonus Track) – Punch Brothers – Positive chapters

Built For This – Ben Sollee – Positive: Every (Chapter 23), Chapters with Iceland

And the Forest Began to Sing– Röyksopp – Nature-centric chapters

Singing with the Whales – Yukimi Yamamoto – Negative: Ships (Chapter 26)

3055 – Ólafur Arnalds – Negative chapters

Fel del Av Gården – Motits! – Positive: Siblings (Chapter 13), Positive: Hidden (Chapter 7)

Tornado – Jónsi – Negative chapters

Everything Can Explode – The Ghost – Positive chapters

Brand New Sidewalk – Nickel Creek – Neutrality: Equilibrium

Little Talks – Of Monsters and Men – General theme

You Are – Punch Brothers – Song Denmark sings in Positive: Skype (Chapter 25)

**The download link is in my profile, if anyone wants the songs.**


End file.
